On Paper
by LithiumDoll
Summary: Should be fine! If they can just work out exactly who's the client.
1. Chapter 1

I haven't given up on the Leverage/Human Target fic (I swear!), but this one bit me too, so...

S4/5-ish Leverage with mid S4-ish PoI ..ish (Honestly, it would probably be best if you don't look too hard at either. Fun train! Fun train!)

* * *

"Question for you, Harold." Sam ran an eye over the huge collection of photos stuck to the board; apparently Finch had made an early start. There were a lot of different names, but always the same handful of faces. "How do fifty numbers make five people?"

"When someone remarkably adept at building cover identities is involved. There are a great many more," Finch added, as he crossed to stand beside her. "The Machine found four-hundred and eighty numbers, these are just the ones that have been active in New York - minus a few with significantly easier to remember names. If you're an aficionado of British science fiction programming."

"And do we have the real names?"

"We do." Finch pointed to the largest cluster of photos. "Nathan Ford."

The largest group of photos, ranging from company mugshots to prison mugshots to CCTV captures, with roughly a ten year spread. Something pretty bad had happened around year four, Sam guessed, because Ford had gone from buttoned up corporate suit to skid row bum practically overnight. A year or so beyond that, he'd settled around 'that uncle nobody talks about' and stayed there. The latest photos showed a middle-aged man, with lightly curling, salt-and-pepper hair and a faint frown that seemed to be a permanent feature.

"Ford was an extremely capable investigator with IYS Insurance. He resigned after his son died from a highly aggressive cancer, treatment for which the company refused to pay for. Two years later, he resurfaced as the head of this … team, I suppose, of assorted criminals. One of the first things they did was ruin Ian Blackpoole, the CEO."

"They aren't a team," Sam said firmly, after reevaluating Ford's expression. Now she understood the context, it was clear that he wasn't frowning. He was thinking. Planning. "They're a crew," she clarified. "Old school. How many little old ladies have they cheated out of their life savings?"

"As far as I've been able to find, none whatsoever. In fact, quite the opposite. While we endeavor to help people before a crime is committed, they aid those the usual channels of justice have subsequently failed.

"Lara Bennett," he went on, nodding to the pictures of a dark haired woman in her forties.

Or possibly mid-thirties. Late twenties. Fifties? Sam rolled her eyes. "Grifter? With a hell of a collection of hats."

"Ms Bennett is a South African expat, though she spent a great deal of time in the United Kingdom. She has the largest collection of identities, many pre-dating her association with the rest of these individuals."

"Crew," Sam corrected, and pointed at the widely grinning face of the next in line. "Who's this guy?"

"Alec Hardison, who graduated community college at fourteen with an unweighted 4.1 GPA. While he's more than intelligent enough to have earned it, the program the college uses simply doesn't work that way, so…"

"He's the hacker." There hadn't been much point in studying the photos of Bennett, they didn't contain anything she didn't want a mark to see, but Hardison's unguarded expression was an open book with a big font and double-wide spacing. Under someone a little too naive, and a little too kind, was someone a lot confident. "He Caleb Phipps good, Root good, or you good?"

"From the evidence, certainly on par with Caleb. Beyond that, I'm not entirely sure how one would judge Mr Hardison gaining complete control over an entire country's communications against Ms Groves' ability to infiltrate and corrupt networks I spent years building."

"Maybe they can have a hack-off."

"Yes, a wonderful idea I'm sure would end well." Harold moved briskly on. "The second woman is Patricia Arker, more commonly known as Parker. I have doubts that this identity isn't yet another cover, albeit the earliest one I've found and probably the closest to the real history.

"She was in and out of foster care until she was ten, at which point she was in and out of juvenile detention, until finally being taken until the wing of one Archibald Leach."

Sam blinked and turned from her study of the least expressive of the five. " _That_ Archie Leach?"

"The same. She enjoyed an extremely successful career specialising in thefts to order, though there are some jobs attributed to her that I haven't been able to backtrace to a client."

Not expressive, but not expressionless, Sam decided. There was a glint in Parker's eyes that appeared in photo after photo; it was … familiar. "Probably did some for the hell of it," she said.

"Robbing the Louvre … because it was there?" Finch tested, staring owlishly at her from behind the lenses of his glasses.

"She's that good, why not have a little fun now and then?"

"And last but not least, Eliot Spencer," Finch said, after a delicately horrified pause.

"He joined the military after high school and apparently showed enough propensity that he entered the special forces in remarkably short order. The circumstances of his departure are heavily redacted - much like yours and Mr Reese's."

"I'm still a Marine. Reese is still a Ranger. Spencer's probably still … whatever he was." Ranger, she'd put down money and not consider it gambling. "We're all still marching on paper, it's the easiest way to get lost in the shuffle."

"He was seconded to a number of agencies, but eventually transitioned to working in the private sector. After a period of employment as an enforcer, he became an at least semi-legitimate retrieval specialist. It appears he was attempting to go straight, but then, of course, he joined Ford's _crew_."

"He looks familiar," Sam muttered, but he didn't. Not exactly. At least, no more than Parker did: she recognised these eyes too. They were closer to Reese's than her own: trained, deadly, and always so damn sorry about it.

She turned back again, more than ready to get this moving. "So now the bonus question: why am I the only one here?"

"The Machine has cross-matched several dates where Mr Reese and Mr Spencer were in the same location and possibly involved in the same operation. Until we can determine why Ford is here, I'd rather not risk our surveillance descending into mass violence in the streets. Again."

"Hey," Sam raised a finger. "That was not our fault. And they didn't need to close the tunnel for more than, what? An hour?"

"Nonetheless - "

"Yeah, yeah. I got it."

"Take Detective Fusco," Finch suggested.

"Please, I can do better than that." Sam whistled once and Bear padded after her.

-o-

"The woman with the Belgian Malinois on my two," Eliot said. "She's watching us."

"Malinois is Belgian?" Across the table, Parker frowned. "Wait, who's Malinois?" She mumbled around a half-chewed bite of burger. "I thought we were here for-"

"Not 'the Belgian, _Malinois_.' The Belgian ... it's a dog, okay?" Eliot shook his head. "The woman with the dog is watching us."

"Or maybe she's just watching me. Maybe she wants my pretzels," Hardison suggested pointedly, adjusting his sexy new shades and rolling his sexy new shoulders. Fine, same shoulders, newly sexy. No, always sexy. _Hella_ sexy. "Never think of that, huh?"

"Oh for - not again." Eliot straightened in exasperation, their watcher momentarily discounted. "Look, man. I wasn't saying you're not-"

Nate pinched the bridge of his nose and wished he'd ordered a double. He couldn't see the woman, but as Eliot, Parker and Hardison had been sniping at each other non-stop for a week while their client's case sat dead in the water, he welcomed anything new she was bringing to the table. Up to and including a damn Belgian Malinois. "Eliot, you sure?"

"Yeah," Eliot nodded, settling back. "CIA maybe." Right-handed, but holding her coffee cup with her left. Chair turned to put her back to the wall, with the best view of not only the cluster of tables they were seated in the middle of, but also of the side street. And not once had she checked her cell phone or touched her hair. "She sits very distinctively," he said.

"Okay, when Sophie gets back we'll do the Dusseldorf Exit. Parker, you're the bait. Eliot, go fish."

"She's trying to clone our cells," Hardison said, and tapped a few buttons on his phone. "And whatever she's using, it is _smooth_. I can return the favor, but not without her getting in."

"Wipe the most sensitive data, then do it," Nate said after a moment of deliberation. Know thy stalker. "Let's see who's come out to play."


	2. Chapter 2

"I've cloned their cell phones, although I have to say even for burners they're remarkably unrevealing. And - oh."

Sam sipped her coffee, hiding her mouth behind the cup as she replied to the voice in her ear. "Problem?"

"I may have inadvertently alerted them to your presence - they're attempting to return the favor."

"Don't sweat it, Finch. Pretty sure they'd already made me." She didn't bother to mask her reply this time. "An attractive woman, sitting alone, accompanied by an unusual breed of dog - statistically, at least one of those things should rate a little interest. Nothing."

She sipped her coffee again, no point in letting it get cold. "Devereux's in the cafe. My guess is they're waiting on her before making an exit. I can follow them if you want, but I guarantee they're expecting me to."

As if on cue, Devereaux, elegantly over-dressed in a gray sheath dress and red pumps, left the cafe and made her way unhurriedly towards her table. There'd been no communication that Sam had seen, but the woman didn't even glance her way: she knew she was being watched.

"They aren't using their phones," Sam said. "Earmics, maybe."

"That would explain lack of meaningful data," Finch muttered. "Scanning communication frequencies."

Parker stood a few seconds after Deveraux sat. She was scowling, but looked more exasperated than angry.

Presumably this would be who they hoped Sam would follow. With that hair she'd be easy to spot in a crowd, but more than skilled enough to slip away when she wanted to.

Except -

"Okay, this is ridiculous." Sam drained the last of her coffee and scritched Bear in the spot behind his ear he liked best. "The thief just winked at me and then left wearing a neon 'Hello, my name is Bait' tag. They know, we know, why don't we just talk to them?"

There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the comms.

"The tag was figurative," she added.

"I'd like to be significantly more familiar with their methods and affiliations before making any form of direct contact," Finch said after a beat. "We don't know whether they're the victims or the perpetrators and their communications are heavily encrypted. Mr. Hardison is an extremely security conscious young man."

Fine, except Ford and his Crew wouldn't move until she did, and Sam had no intention of playing her part. "The cafe closes in less than an hour. If we're still sitting here not looking at each other by then, it will officially be the most humiliating covert action since the eighties. And, Harold? I will absolutely silence any witnesses."

-o-

Nate pulled open Lucille's rear doors and backed up quickly when he was greeted by an enormous, shifting pile of empty plastic bottles. When he wasn't immediately buried, he hauled himself up into the interior and edged around the East Face of Squeeze Orange Soda Mountain, trying to avoid triggering an avalanche.

Behind the West Face, still out of sight, he could hear Hardison stabbing vengefully at his keyboard and muttering to himself. Which he had, by Nate's estimate, been doing for roughly thirty hours: since the cafe debacle.

He hadn't appreciated the sardonic glance at his half-empty bottle of bourbon when Sophie had 'suggested' it was time to stage an Intervention, but he'd had to agree. He just wished he'd thought to bring sherpas.

At least he'd brought the bourbon.

He swallowed a fortifying mouthful and circled his way around the back of Hardison's chair.

"You did not - yes you did. Oh, it's on like Donkey Kong. And _every_ single knockoff! Every. Single. One."

"Hardison," Nate said. "It's Tuesday." Wait. He leaned forward, squinting at the clock on the computer desktop until it swam into focus. "Hardison, it's Wednesday."

"No, it's - " Hardison glanced at the clock. "Wednesday. Which is weird, because it smells more like Tuesday."

The aroma inside the van wasn't _bad_ , exactly, but it was definitely layered. An empty packet of Gummi Frogs drifted serenely from the summit of Mount Soda. Nate absently plucked it out of the air and deposited it in an overflowing wastebasket. "What have you got?"

"Not a damn thing," Hardison said. Reflected in the monitor, his expression sat somewhere between spooked and impressed.

Nate sat beside him, peering at the screen again. There were a handful of windows open, none of which looked any different to the ones on display whenever Hardison announced he'd won everything. "How's that possible?"

"If you'd have asked me Monday, I'd have said it isn't." Hardison leaned back in his chair and dropped his hands in tired defeat. "Someone is anticipating my moves and data scrubbing before I got there, and that's … look, even I don't have that kind of access.

"One time I thought I had an in: whoever's hiding our mystery lady didn't think the dog was so important."

"You found it?"

"Footage in from six months ago. They figured out what I was doing after five minutes and Max turned into a poodle. A _poodle_. Reddit has horror stories about this kind of thing, Nate." He darted a look over his shoulder. "You know I'm all about helping people, but bleeding walls are a dealbreaker, just to be real clear right now."

Nate nodded. "So someone is actively monitoring you?"

"Someone with a sense of humor." Hardison tabbed to the facial recognition results and scrolled though image after image of women, and a few men, posing in long red trench coats and exciting fedoras. "But - good news for the family - we found Carmen Sandiego."

Nate waved his hand. "Okay, I get it. You don't think…"

"Chaos is not even _close_ to this good. _No one_ is close to this good - not without serious, government level power-ups. And it doesn't have to be the US government - China's bringing the heat." Hardison grabbed an open soda bottle, swallowed until it was empty and threw the bottle on the pile without looking. "Even North Korea'll fool you."

"You think China or North Korea's government is interested in the family Deli?"

"I wouldn't have thought _any_ government was interested in Nana Augsburger, except maybe ours after she threw eggs at that senator. Maybe she's a Communist spy." He blinked. "Do we think she's a Communist spy?"

They both took a moment to picture the tiny, smiling - surprisingly anti-authoritarian - octogenarian as a master of Cold War tradecraft.

"No," Nate said, finally. "We do not think that."

"Unless that's what she _wants_ us to-"

"She does not," Nate said firmly. "Get some sleep, Hardison."

Hardison waved him away.

Nate transversed the mountain again and opened the back of the van, to see Eliot and Parker standing with crossed arms and identically determined expressions. "Good luck," he said, as he jumped down.

He was halfway back to the hotel before he heard a startled yelp, and what sounded a lot like a flood of empty bottles of soda cascading over an unsuspecting hacker.

-o-

Sam sat cross legged on the old trolley and chewed her burger while she watched Finch and Reese talking inside the subway car. It would have been easy enough to listen in, but honestly, she doubted it would be that interesting.

A minute ago, someone had opened the vending machine on the floor above and begun making their way down the stairs. Bear wasn't barking: not an intruder.

"Hey, sweetie." Root said as she approached. She looked like a preschool teacher - all gingham and bad choice in cardigan - but she reeked of gasoline.

Which _was_ interesting, but Sam wasn't in the mood to play twenty questions. She hunched protectively over her lunch instead. "Why are you here?"

With a teasing moue of disappointment, Root sat. Then scooted closer, until they were pressed knee to knee. Sam stayed where she was - damned if she'd give her the satisfaction of moving. Besides, this was warmer.

On the downside, Root was inside her perimeter. On the plus side, Sam had remembered to get a large fries this time. So, whatever.

"I heard what happened," Root said, sympathetic expression too amused to be genuine. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I got made," Sam pointed out, rolling her eyes. "Not diagnosed."

"A little girl time will cheer you up." Root smiled encouragingly, and with so much saccharine that she was able to rustle a couple of fries while her slack-jawed victim tried to work out if diabetes was setting in. "You know I can show you a good time," she coaxed, sugar turning to syrup.

She popped a fry in Sam's still-open mouth; Sam chewed automatically while she considered the offer. It actually sounded promising. "There's an arms fair in town?"

"Sadly, no. But there _is_ an attache with a bag full of embezzled money making a run for the airport."

"Sounds fun," Sam admitted, grudgingly, and snatched the pot of ketchup back. "I'll drive."

"I stole you a yellow Maserati, just the way you like it," Root agreed indulgently, and smiled in a slightly less terrifying fashion as she gently pried the junk food from Sam's clutches. " _And_ I found your favorite balaclava."

Harold watched as Shaw and Root left, heads bent towards each other as they talked with disturbingly anticipatory expressions. "I have concerns," he said at last.

Reese shrugged with a complete lack of any. "You're the one who said we needed money."

"And even as I did…" Finch trailed away as he turned back to the computer. "Was Detective Fusco able to find any information about Ford's client?"

"Cecylia Augsburger, eighty-three. Owns and operates a Deli with her daughter - Ana - and grandson - Michael - in Queens. They've been closed for renovations the last six months."

"Six months?" Harold paused and turned again. "That seems excessive for a small business."

"Which is probably why our numbers are involved." Reese held out a sheaf of ink-smeared photocopies that looked like they'd been the subject of Bear's bored attentions. Apparently Fusco's efforts to teach Reese basic office skills had not been going well.

"We looked into the company doing the work," he said. "Heart's Homes. They only work for small, family-owned businesses. Two-thirds closed within a few months of renovations being completed.

"Civil suits have been brought against them, but they're usually dropped within forty-eight hours. One plaintiff took it to two weeks and died in crash. Her kids were in the car with her."

"That explains Ford's interest. Though I don't understand why The Machine thinks they're at risk, but the Augsburger family isn't."

"Could be it doesn't have anything to do with their client - maybe they just have history about to catch up to them. Might be quicker to ask," Reese said mildly.

"I'd really prefer-"

"More information. I know, Shaw said. We've worked with less than this before."

"But we've rarely associated with people who are quite as capable of making their own investigations," Harold pointed out. "Can you imagine what would happen if they alerted Samaritan? I've already spent the last few days combatting Mr. Hardison's efforts and that was far closer than I'd like. The best option is avoid interaction. If we absolutely must make an approach, Detective Fusco can do it."

"We've tried to stay around the edges before, it doesn't work. If anyone will understand operating below the radar, it's them."

Shaw and Reese agreeing on a course of action tended to be something of a double-edged sword, but on those occasions - and assuming outright murder wasn't involved - Harold usually tried to at least reevaluate his position. It was possible that he was being over cautious, he had to admit, but then it was debatable whether such a state existed when Samaritan was involved.

"I suppose there is an element of mutually assured destruction," he said, hesitantly. "Anything they rain down upon us, we can certainly reciprocate."

The corners of Reese's eyes creased in amusement. "That's the spirit, Harold."

"Still, I'd recommend you don't mention your day job, Detective."

"Don't tell the criminals I can arrest them," Reese said dryly. "Sure. Where are they now?"


	3. Chapter 3

Ford and his crew had rooms in a hotel in Astoria. Not obviously expensive; not suspiciously cheap. Close enough to the Deli they could reach it quickly if they had to, far enough away that they'd be able to shake anyone trying to follow them.

Good strategy.

John approved of the hotel lobby too, with its natural lighting, minimal foot traffic and tables that were too low to hide any surprises. _And_ of the comfortable seating, positioned to give a clear view of both the main entrance and the bar.

As someone who had spent a disproportionate amount of his life lurking discretely in public spaces, he appreciated the more accommodating ones.

Spencer had claimed a stool at the bar five minutes after John arrived. He was still there fifteen minutes later, nursing a bottle of something imported. Occasionally his lips would move, which meant the crew's comms were still active. And, as Finch hadn't mentioned a last minute breakthrough, still encrypted.

Didn't matter. Spencer was likely only waiting on the hacker, and probably the thief, to confirm that John was as alone as he looked.

As he was alone, and as he didn't have any place else to be, John settled back and opened the book that Finch had unsympathetically handed him after John had suggested he'd get bored.

Finch's reading recommendations tended to be something of a barometer and John had to say, _The Iron Heel_ suggested a definite lack of optimism about their chances. On the other hand, it was one of Finch's beloved first editions - _that_ suggested he was, at least, feeling pretty good about John making it out of the hotel alive.

So that was comforting.

A few pages in, a shadow fell across the table; he looked up.

Behind a faint, empty smile, Spencer seemed impassive. Hands loose at his sides; body angled a touch defensively, sure, but not aggressive. He nodded to the couch right-angled with John's.

"Mind if I sit?"

John folded his page at the corner; there was a small, scandalized gasp in his ear. "They keep saying it's a free country," he said, ignoring Finch's outrage as he closed the book.

Wry amusement found its way into Spencer's eyes. "They do say that," he agreed as he sat. "No dog this time? Doesn't like the rain?"

"Bear likes the rain fine, just has a habit of shaking near the wrong things. John," John added, but didn't extend his hand. That gesture wasn't so polite when both of them were waiting for the one twitch out of place that signaled a go.

"Eliot." The ironic smile appeared again. "But you knew that. So the question is, why the interest? This ain't official."

"You help people, we help people." John tried a smile of his own. "Turns out, you need help."

"Careful, Mr. Reese," Finch cautioned. "Remember we still don't know whether they're the victims or the perpetrators."

John held up a hand slowly to show clear intent before he extracted his earmic and twisted it to deactivate.

After a moment, Spencer did the same. A little of the tightness in his shoulders eased; never was much fun to be in two conversations at once. "My people will still be listening," he volunteered. "Don't think there's much that could stop them."

"Mine either." But mentioning it earned Spencer a few points. Besides. "Saves saying everything twice."

"What makes you think we need your help? Not that we don't appreciate the heads up."

"Maybe you don't." John shrugged. "Maybe you're enough. Think you're enough?"

There was no anger at the soft jab. No ego. Just a speculative squint. Honestly, John hadn't expected anything else.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But maybe we don't _want_ your kind of help." Spencer folded his arms. "Seems like you know a hell of a lot more about us than we know about you."

"If your hacker stops looking for answers, we'll give them to you." As slowly as before, John drew a business card from his top pocket. It was blank, except for a printed phone number. He held it out. "You agree, call."

Spencer hesitated, but finally took the number. "And if we don't?"

John said nothing. Most people tended to answer that question themselves, and usually a lot more effectively than he would. Abandoning slow motion, he picked up his book and tucked it and his earmic into his inside pocket

Spencer tensed, but relaxed when no rush was forthcoming.

"Make you a deal," John said on impulse as he stood. "Parker can tail me. Whatever she gets, good for you. But the hacker? He's _done_."

Even without the earmic, he could hear the ghost of Finch's voice in his ear, asking him if this was wise.

-o-

Alec gnawed on a gummi as, on his laptop screen, 'John' left the hotel and Eliot headed for the elevators. That? That right there? Was _actual proof_ no one listened to a damn thing he said.

And later, when they were being swarmed by Agent Smiths, they'd be all, 'Dammit, Hardison!' and then, 'Hardison, save us!' and would he? _Would he_?

Okay, yes, he would, he admitted grudgingly, gnawing harder. But only because he was the better man. So, so much better than they deserved.

From the couch across the hotel room, Nate cleared his throat. "Hardison?"

Alec raised his eyes to glare at him over the top of his laptop, still chewing furiously.

Eliot opened the door to the room they were calling home, sweet hotel and started to open his mouth. Alec swallowed thickly and got there first. " _Yes_ , I got footage," he snapped. " _No_ , I'm not running it. _Yes_ , I'm pissed. The earbud? _Seriously_?"

"You had the hotel audio," Sophie pointed out from her perch on the end of the couch, a little concerned and a lot confused. "And he established rapport. It was the right call."

Alec stared around the ring of uncomprehending faces. "The hotel's firewall is rice paper." When Sophie, Nate and Eliot still stared blankly back, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "People this good, they could feed me _anything_ over that camera feed. The only network we can trust is _mine._ For now."

The thought alone leached away the anger that had been covering the nausea-inducing fear he'd been dealing with since the bud had gone offline. "Eliot, man." He opened his eyes again, but waited until he had everyone's full attention before going on. "We could still be sitting here listening to you talk, while you were in the back of a van heading ..." He waved a hand in the general direction of _anywhere_. "And if they didn't want it? I'd - _we'd_ \- never find you."

Eliot looked uncertain; Sophie looked shocked.

Nate looked thoughtful. "If they can do something like that, and didn't, it tells us something."

The song lied: two out of three was still pretty bad.

Alec shut his laptop and leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders against the tension of the last half hour. "These are the scariest people we've ever played with," he said flatly. "I'm counting Damien Moreau and I'm not running around crying wolf. The wolves are here. The wolves are in our house and until we know if they're going to chow on down on grandma and Red and little Timmy, _do not disable the earbuds_."

Something in his tone or expression must have finally penetrated, because Nate nodded.

"Understood," he said, and glanced at Eliot.

"Won't happen again," Eliot agreed, with an expression that Alec couldn't quite read. And, honestly, right now, still nauseous and a little twitchy? He wasn't that interested in making the effort.

Nate cleared his throat. "So. Impressions?"

"Ex-CIA. I'd guess Paramilitary Operations. Rangers before that." Eliot shucked off his jacket, retrieving the earbud from the pocket as he did. Under Alec's baleful gaze, he settled it back where it belonged and pressed it back into active mode. "Bet you a dollar, even if Hardison did track down his file, there wouldn't be a damn thing in it we could read."

"He was relaxed during the conversation," Sophie offered. "I think it's fair to say he felt in control of the situation."

"He knew he was being watched," Nate pointed out. "Maybe he was putting on a show."

Sophie shook her head with a hum of disagreement. "That would usually make someone prone to displaying over or under-confidence: clear tells. He knew and didn't care - he's obviously done this sort of thing before. Of course, if whoever sent him has as much reach as Hardison says, it doesn't sound like he'd have any reason to worry about us."

Alec didn't hear any particular emphasis in Sophie's tone, but Nate's head canted back thoughtfully as he studied her. " _About us_ ," he prompted.

Sophie smiled, looking pleased by the close attention. "He's worried about _something_ ; his body language was almost ... _hunted_ as he left the hotel."

"His name is John Riley; he's a cop." Parker said, from the small writing desk next to the window. "He only had a wallet, a badge and a book. I left the book," she added as she held the first two up. "He hasn't finished it yet."

Alec looked from the closed door to the open third story window and decided not to ask. He was _all_ out of nerves from Elliot's stunt, Parker doing a little light free climbing in broad daylight? Didn't even register.

Sophie blinked. "He didn't look like a police officer."

"He isn't," Eliot said firmly. "No way. Either he's government and they're trying to rope us into something, or he's a hitter."

"Like Mikel," Parker said, almost wistfully. "Are you going to date him too?"

Alec tried to look like he wasn't that interested in the reply, panicked and stuffed a foot-long gummi worm into his mouth. You know. Nonchalantly.

"He ain't my type," Eliot said dryly, preoccupied with fishing out the phone card he'd been given.

So, on the plus side, he wasn't even looking Alec's way. On the downright chilling side, Sophie was. Alec could have gone a long, long time without ever seeing her eyes go that wide.

"Okay, we have a mysterious hacker calling the shots, and at least two operatives on the ground." Nate interjected, before they completely jumped the tracks. "Whether they're legitimate or not, we can't afford to let this blow back on the Augsburgers.

"We find out who they are and what they know," he decided, and held his hand out for the phone card.

"And infect their computer with a virus that pulls up Wally every time they run a search," Alec muttered. "See how they like it."

-o-

"Mr. Ford, I've been expecting your call." The voice on the other end of the line was crisply impersonal, but not using any distorting software that Nate could tell. He glanced at Hardison, who silently shook his head. Nothing to report.

"My name is Harold Mallard," the voice went on.

Nate leaned back in his chair, toying with the edge of his glass. "Somehow I doubt that."

"And you're quite right to," Mallard said without offense but, perhaps, Nate thought, with just a hint of amusement. "Have you decided to accept our terms?"

"Help with a mysterious problem in return for no investigation? You had to know I'd have questions before agreeing anything."

"Yes, I anticipated that would be the case. Shall we start with introductions? As Ms. Parker will already have told you, the gentleman who met with Mr. Spencer earlier was Detective Riley. He works at the Eighth Precinct, which you'll be able to confirm with very little trouble, I'm sure.

"You spotted Ms. Gray outside the cafe - doubtless Mr. Spencer has already outlined her proficiencies. Ms. Gray is currently employed by Bloomingdale's. Her next shift begins at nine tomorrow morning, though she's expressed a preference that no one troubles her there. Apparently her manager is somewhat difficult.

"And, as I'm sure you've deduced, I have been countering Mr. Hardison's really quite inventive efforts to find us."

"Yeah." Nate glanced at Hardison again. "That did not go over well."

"While I myself greatly enjoyed several sleepless nights data scrubbing," Mallard said, sharply.

Hardison grinned with satisfaction; Parker's hand dropped quickly over his mouth to muffle his reply.

"My associates and I act to prevent violent crimes before they occur," Mallard went on, unruffled once more. "We received information that your … crew … will either perpetrate a crime or be victims of one."

"You contacted us," Nate pointed out. "You think we're being targeted."

"Based on your activities over the last few years, it seems likely. Normally we keep at a distance - many of our clients never even know we were involved, and fewer still ever meet us in person. However, it was brought to my attention that efforts to obfuscate would be wasted at best and harmful at worst, hence the direct approach.

"We know you're attempting to help Cecylia Augsburger and her family. I propose that you allow us to do so instead, while you work with us in a secure location to determine where the threat towards yourselves is coming from."

Eliot, Parker and Sophie snorted in unison; Hardison choked on his soda.

"That's not going to happen," Nate said evenly, ignoring them.

"Then I suggest you allow Ms. Gray and Detective Riley aid you in whatever capacity you see fit, whilst endeavoring to ensure your safety. I will provide remote support."

The follow up offer had been made too quickly to be anything other than planned in advance; Nate was tempted to keep refusing, to see how far they'd go to integrate themselves. Unfortunately, that still wouldn't indicate one way or the other whether Mallard was trying to play them or help them. No reason to prolong this.

"And what about the rest of your team?" He asked offhandedly instead.

"Excuse me?"

There wasn't even a slight pause; for good or bad, there was at least one more card Mallard didn't intend to show. No point pressing there either. Let Mallard think he'd covered. Nate could be patient when it suited him and, for now, it suited him.

"Guess I lost count. Vigilantes looking out for the little guy, I understand," he went on, changing the subject. "Obviously. But where are you getting your information? How do you _know_ we're in danger?"

"That isn't something I'm in a position to disclose. However, I can assure you that our source is never mistaken. Do you have any idea who might be targeting you? I imagine the list of potential names must be rather long."

Staring into the bottom of his untouched glass of whiskey, and reflecting on exactly how long that list was, Nate made a decision. "Tell your people to meet us at the hotel tomorrow at six. Room three-eighteen."


End file.
